


when are you going to leave me

by avoidfilledwithcelluloid



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Aw bros what can I say?, Blood Drinking, M/M, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2453435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avoidfilledwithcelluloid/pseuds/avoidfilledwithcelluloid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here was a game that Roman played in his head while Peter walked back and forth in the front of his room: it was called When Are You Going To Leave Me.</p><p>(post season 2 finale)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when are you going to leave me

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in a frenzy after seeing Gone Girl and needing some morally grey weird sex stuff to occupy my brain. thanks go to marissa, again, for reading this and telling me it was good when i shoved it at her. also thank u to tesla who, although i doubt she knew it, def helped to spark this fic by mainlining hemlock grove with me over the past couple of weeks. hope u guys enjoyyyyyyyy.

On the edge of the woods there is Roman who is waiting for Peter. He can smell the thousands of people in Hemlock Grove and he can smell them eating breakfast, having sex, pumping and pumping blood through their bodies. Roman scratches at the elbow of his coat, a neat navy overcoat Peter stole from Norman’s closet when they went to get clothes for the burial. Roman had contended that Norman would want to be cremated but in the end he didn’t care about what Norman wanted. The fucker hadn’t cared what Roman had wanted for eighteen years.

“It suits you,” Peter had said, straightening the shoulders. “It has a good asshole vibe coming from it.”

In the pockets of the coat Roman has a pack of cigarettes and he rolls the pack around and around in his hands. They have a good feel to them, this cardboard box and the plastic wrap around it. Roman bites his lip, takes his hand out of his pocket and runs it through his hair. Crisp from gel, his hair sticks to the palm of his hand and he remembers that the next day is his birthday. Roman Godfrey will be nineteen.

It has been a week since Nadia disappeared

**…**

Here was a game that Roman played in his head while Peter walked back and forth in the front of his room: it was called When Are You Going To Leave Me. He had started playing it when they had fallen in bed with Miranda and the next morning it was fully formed, rules and everything, while Roman stared at Peter sleeping over the wall of Miranda’s inked back. The rules were that for every good thing that happened, Roman could have Peter for another day and for every bad thing Peter was leaving just a day sooner. He set the end date for the next August. Peter wouldn’t stay longer than a year, Roman reasoned. There was nothing in Hemlock Grove worth more time than a year.

He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Peter pacing while Roman smoked his seventh cigarette. Each butt of the previous cigarette was lined up next to him and even though the aristocrat in the back of his head was twitching at the singes on the bed he didn’t move them. Peter ran his hands down his face, pulling the fat skin of his cheeks taut so as to bare his pink gums and white teeth. The elbows of his stripped button up were worn and his brown vest swung loosely with every jerking movement he made. Roman let his eyes swing with the actions, bouncing from part to part of Peter’s body with the eyes of cat watching a piece of string. Back and forth went Peter, a pendulum of a person.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Peter moaned. The muscles in his upper arms jumped at the word ‘fucking’. Roman let out a long breath of smoke and then set the burnt out cigarette next to its brothers. “She’s gone. She’s fucking gone.”

Roman’s hand shook as he let go of the cigarette.

“We’re going to have to find her,” Peter said, covering his eyes with his left hand. His right hand ran through his hair. The way he spoke was so matter of fact and tinged with the poison of necessity. Roman could feel the game slipping away from him. He could feel himself losing. “I mean, we have to look for her. For them.”

“Peter,” Roman’s voice was soft. He had never known his voice could be soft. Peter didn’t look at him, face turned toward the heavy closet doors. His back was tense like a violin string. “Peter, are you going to leave?”

Still. Peter went still.  

There were tremors in Roman’s bones when he stood up. His heart did not make a sound. Peter, who was looking down now at the molding running along the bottom of the wall, was huffing out tiny breaths. In a jerky motion Roman pulled his shirt off. The dull thump it made when it hit the ground reminded him of the noise of falling bodies. His pants went next, unzipped and then gently tugged off his ankles in an awkward curling of his body. Peter looked at his own feet. No shoes on so he didn’t track dirt into the house. He clenched his toes on the hardwood and the click of Roman’s watch against the floor was next.

He looked at the tremble of his fingers sliding his underwear down but he couldn’t look at Roman’s face.

“Tell me,” Roman said in a hard candy voice. “Are you going to leave?”

He made one long fluid pale line from toes to top. Before, Roman had thought of himself as a cobbled together boy of pieces rather than a whole person: something that had been broken up by clothes and fear. Here Roman was not a quick look. He was a view, a hard and terrible view that Peter would always see when he closed his eyes. At his sides, his hands were just grazing the skin of his hips. From where Peter was standing he could see the thin raised skin that was drawn up Roman’s forearm: an attempt at humanity.

The room was silence. Roman took one step toward Peter, who was still clothed and staring at the glide of Roman’s limbs nearing ever closer.

“Are you going to just fucking stand there?” he spat. So testy, even when he was naked. Hands supplicated to Peter, Roman could not help but want immediacy. The chime of the Peter clock in his head was growing louder and louder. Roman had always heard things at such terrible volumes, the sounds of his loneliness and his fear a cacophony to his ears. “You can’t even say anything, right? You can’t fucking say anything because you _are_ going to leave. You’re going to tell me that you don’t have a choice and that I need to stay here and be strong. For Shelley. For, for I don’t fucking know who.”

“Roman.”

He had a bird in his chest.

“I’m not going to leave.”

It was bird that was pecking at his ribs and the feathers swiped at his heart so that for a moment Roman felt something touch, soft, at the muscle. Bending forward, he took the sides of Peter’s face into the cups of his hands and kissed him.

He wished it was more complicated than the simple action, but nothing with Peter was ever how Roman wanted it. The inside of Peter’s mouth was warm and tasted like the key to a puzzle, was wet like July. Roman relished the sound of Peter’s sharp inhale through his nose and then he moaned when hands grabbed his hips. Hands with a touch that vibrated through his skin and Peter was pulling him closer still. His dick rubbed on the rough of Peter’s jeans and the bird screeched through his lungs, making Roman short of breath. He pulled back, a wet pop separating the two of them and then Peter lunged.

They tumbled into the sheets, like the cliché Roman had imagined with everyone but the boy throwing his vest on the floor. Peter’s knees bracketed Roman’s thighs and he looked down, briefly, before giving Roman a crooked smile.

“We doing this?”

“Sh-it,” Roman said. “You need me to see if Miranda left a scrunchie so your hair’s not in your face?”

Peter bent down to shake his hair in Roman’s face and it smelled horrible, like dirt and grease. He pushed Peter away, frowning, but Peter didn’t look ruffled in the slightest. He’d still had his shirt and pants on but instead of taking them off he just sat back on his haunches looking at Roman. Smiling at Roman.

“This is probably the best thing to happen today,” he said and Roman couldn’t stand it. He sat up and started to unbutton Peter’s shirt, all while sucking at his neck. Leaving hot kisses under Peter’s chin like notes for later, Roman tossed the shirt aside and started to press Peter down on the bed.

“You can’t say shit like that,” he hissed, moving down Peter’s chest with a slow drag of his lips pressed against all the sweat and hair there. “It’s too-“

“Too what?”

Roman bit Peter on his belly and the other boy winced. The red circle of his teeth shined up at Roman, who plastered the wound with his tongue. He wanted to taste every part of Peter. All of the body, committed to Roman’s memory until his bones wore out and he collapsed into dust. The salty taste of Peter’s hips and the way his pink flesh gave under pressure would be Roman’s to hold in his hot little hands like a piece of stolen candy, sitting on his tongue just melting at the thrill of its existence.

“Too good,” he said, making quick work of Peter’s belt and jeans. “It doesn’t feel right.”

There was a weight on his head and Peter was sliding his hand into Roman’s hair, cupping the side of skull to direct his attention up to Peter’s face. Roman stopped with a hand paused above the button to Peter’s jeans, giving the other boy a glance through his lashes.

“Most things around here don’t feel right,” Peter said. “That doesn’t stop anyone from doing anything.”

Roman rose up on bent elbows and looked at Peter’s face. He couldn’t imagine what his own face looked like, only that his lips hurt like bruises and his hair was being slowly pushed back by Peter’s squared fingers. Running the tips of his fingers down the sharp of Roman’s temple and jawbone, Peter stopped and rested his thumb on his lips.

“It won’t stop me,” he whispered and his grip went hard, sinking into the meat of Roman’s chin to jerk him into the press of Peter’s mouth. Their teeth clacked and Roman cut Peter’s bottom lip. Blood slicked the kiss, the clash of tongues turned red and dripping.

Roman slid his hand down and pushed Peter’s waist band down. Curious fingered, he wrapped his hand around Peter’s dick and gave it an experimental tug. The groan that he drew from Peter was a long and worn sound like pulling a scarf out of a magician’s sleeve. Their bodies undulated together in a rhythm punctuated by the slick sound of skin touching skin. Peter had his hands gripping Roman’s hips leaving white points where each of his fingers was jabbing into the bone. Crouched above Peter, Roman lent down and buried his face into the mess of Peter’s hair. His mouth brushed Peter’s ear.

“If you leave me again,” Roman said, his words sinking into Peter’s scalp, “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to crack your fucking skull open and kill you.”

“You’ll kill me?” Peter asked this and didn’t stop shoving up into Roman’s hand. He could feel the sharp smile of the other boy in the hollow of his throat and Roman’s movements became stuttered. Peter was pressing kisses to the jutting of his collarbone while his hand slid from hip to the meat of Roman’s ass. “You think you can do it?”

Roman inhaled sharply at the feeling of Peter’s nails piercing his skin. A bright white light of pain screamed through his body and blood rushed to his dick.

“I’ll–“he said, biting his lip as Peter reached with his other hand for the lube on the bedside table. “I’ll eat you alive. Pull out your intestines and strangle you with them.”

A slick finger pushed into him and Roman could only just picture the slimey feeling of Peter’s guts in his hand as his hips moved with the motion. He pulled back from Peter’s hair to see his face, his grinning face that Roman wanted to stuff into his unhinged jaw until it was full. A glance at Peter’s dick reminded him where this was going; he could taste the ooze of stomach acid on his tongue and it was practically a crime how badly he wanted to suck Peter’s dick. Each time Peter even brushed into him Roman was slack jawed, running a race in his brain to calculate how long letting Peter fuck him in the ass would earn him in minutes, in hours, in days. His mouth hung open, a pink and white mess that Peter stared at while his hips pistoned into Roman’s hand.

“Roman,” Peter said, breathed out into the space between them as Roman stroked his dick. He was wet with precome and when Roman pressed on the tip with his thumb Peter made a noise like he was crying.

“I’ll find you,” Roman heaved, two fingers now twisted inside him and jabbing at his prostate. “I’ll always find you. You can run anywhere and I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”

“You’ll kill me,” and it wasn’t a question but a challenge. “I know. You’ve said.”

Roman squirmed when Peter pulled his hand away and gently placed it over Roman’s, taking into his own. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was a bird in his chest that hit his ribs as it fluttered and ate his heart away. Something dribbled off his chin and Roman realized he was crying, he was fucking crying all over Peter while they were both holding onto his dick.

“I need you,” he sobbed, lips feeling thick as he opened his eyes, glazed over with tears. Peter slid his hand off his cock and pulled Roman down so his head was buried into the side of his neck. Mindlessly Roman mouthed at it and his tears mixed with the taste of spit and Peter’s skin.

“I know,” Peter said and lined his dick up to shove, in one slick and hot move, into Roman. It was one bottle rocket behind Roman’s eyes and he gasped into Peter’s neck before sinking his teeth in.

He thrust back, hard and slow because he wanted the heat in his belly to last until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. The solidness that came with Peter fucking up into him and holding his hips was a goodness Roman needed to suffer.

With one hand reaching down to tug at his own dick, Roman opened his mouth to Peter’s tendons and jumping veins and bit down. A gush of warm blood filled his mouth and with his jaw unhinged Roman could almost encompass the entire of Peter’s throat. A snake swallowing him whole with only the pulse of Peter thrusting into him to keep Roman anchored in the room instead of in his fantasies of ripping skin from bone. Out of one ear he could hear the sweet rush of blood under his teeth and out the other he heard Peter’s harsh breathing tickling his scalp. Peter’s nails were sunk into the meat of his hips, letting little drops of blood trickle down his sides. It was perfectly monstrous.

God but Roman was so god damn hungry. He twisted his fist around his dick harder and harder, building speed with Peter until the peak was a pinpoint in his iris. Peter bucked up once, twice and then came with a barely stifled groan. He pulled out and Roman could feel the soft dribble of come out of his ass the way he could feel the heat in his belly tighten. One more brush of his hand and he was done for. Peter reached up and cupped the side of Roman’s face not tucked in his shoulder so he could whisper in his ear.

“I’ll never leave you,” he said, broken like a promise.

Roman’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he came with scream into the gore of Peter’s neck.

**…**

The forest is very quiet in the morning. Roman can sit on top of the hill and watch the wind push the trees around, pretending he is holding his child and showing her the wonders of early rising. Instead he’s on his third cigarette, each previous one lined up next to him in the grass. He wraps the overcoat around him tighter. Peter is still in the woods.

Sometimes it takes longer for him to find his way back. Like how the scent of Roman (tobacco and soap) can get lost in the morning time and Peter can’t follow the same route twice if he can help it. It’s okay for Roman to wait, however, if he can still be allowed to wait.

Tomorrow is going to be his birthday and they are going to Maryland to see a psychic who Destiny thinks will help. He’s going to watch the trees pass through the window of Peter’s truck and his birthday will fly right past him just like the rivers and the road before them. Nadia will not be home. What does it matter? No amount of wishes can make her home again. Roman doesn’t deal in that kind of magic, not yet.

At the edge of the forest, Peter steps out and he’s naked, bloody and grimy. Can he see Roman from all the way over there? He waves and Roman waves back using his unoccupied hand. With the other one he sets the half burnt down cigarette in line with its brothers. Roman stands up. The clock resets. He has another day where Peter doesn’t run away. He can feel the end of the year on his back like a car driving too close. It’s always there. Peter is coming out of the woods. Peter who is grinning and covered in his own blood at the horizon of Roman’s eye sight: he doesn’t even know that everything he does is in a catalogue in the back of Roman’s head just waiting to overflow.

Roman pulls another cigarette out of his pocket and lights it to the weak morning sun. It has been a week since Nadia disappeared and Peter is. Still. There. The game continues.

**Author's Note:**

> check out some more weirdness at my [tumblr](http://avoidfilledwithcelluloid.tumblr.com/)


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